


Would You Like to Make a Deal?

by the_writer



Series: Welcome to Beacon Hell [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of religion, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writer/pseuds/the_writer
Summary: Stiles never meant for everything spin this far out of his control, never thought it would turn out this bad. Never thought that he would enjoy playing as the resident human and enjoy spending time with a pack of wolves. Never expected to get tangled up with Derek Hale of all people, and never thought that he would have enjoyed their time together.OR, the story where Stiles is a demon and got more than he bargained for when his boredom got the better of him.





	Would You Like to Make a Deal?

**Author's Note:**

> Would you look at that, I'm still creature!Stiles trash

Beacon Hills was a small trading post in the middle of nowhere, a passing stop for last minute rations and the last stop before hitting the end of the trail near the sea, a growing town with hope most folk sought after. The small trading post on the other hand, was small and boxed in by rough high rolling hills to the north and a marsh to the southwest and a dense forest crushing in on all sides. Two paths intersected through the thick foliage and dense trees, a straight cut trail to the north and a meandering walkway to the south while a heavily trodden dirt path ran towards the sea, deep grooves of packed earth running along either side from hundreds of wagons beating the soil into submission. 

The trading post had been popular in the beginning, bustling with goods and local hunters trading their pelts for goods to send home, travelers purchasing small bags of oats and children buying colorful beads and candy while tired mothers traded quilts for thread and candles. It had been a time of prosperity, where the annual populace was in the double digits. But now the populace remained to be at the max of three, the low end of one and in the winter often barren as disease and famine drove the family to the growing city at the end of the road. But it was home, and his home specifically. 

It was dark, stars peering through the looming canopy he stands in his home, two dirt paths conjoined together, shadows moving to and fro from the light of lantern not far from his feet, basking the ground in a warm glow as the inky darkness chewed and ravaged it from afar. Before him was a woman, her high necked dress a muddy green as her frizzing hair desperately trapped in a low set braid, twisted up and out of the way as she clung to a still cloth bundle swaddled in her arms. Not far off a lone wagon with a sleeping mule blocking the path from the east, a lone visible candle sitting alone on the seat, the flame flickering under a small canvas roof. 

“Would you like to make a deal?”

O*O*O

Sunlight streamed through the windows as crisp spring air rolled through the dusty blinds, stumbling under desks and between chair legs like eager children, a faint breeze shuffling papers and ruffling rogue strands of hair. It ran through the room, pass the bothersome droning of Mrs. Windshield, between the red words of Macbeth and several gruesome demises. Some students rested their eyes as Stiles sat, turned slightly into the aisle as the clock ticked by, wandering slowly through the seconds as his foot bounced, watching the teacher sway back and forth in front of the board as plump fingers drew expletives and pictures of crowns and cauldrons. 

Stiles groaned, checking the time once more as only a minute had passed, slouching in his chair as he looked about, eyes flickering over sleeping teenagers and girls doodling in the margins and everyone sharing an expression of boredom, confusion and existential dread.

“Hey Scott,” Stiles smiled, rolling his head back to look to his best friend, pushing back in his seat as the front legs lifted off the ground as Stiles balanced.

“What?” Scott asked, taking a quick glance to the board, wonder fading into a deadpan, “This better not be another joke about ‘witches being bitches.’”

Stiles’ toothy grin grew, eyes glinting. “Scott, you gotta admit that joke was amazing, if I do say so myself.” Stiles prided before shaking his head, “But no, it's not that. Why was Macbeth the best bird killer in Scotland?” 

Scott groaned, closing his eyes only to bring his tattered school copy of Macbeth back to the front of his face, hiding Stiles from his view. Rolling his eyes, Stiles brought the defense down with a huff.

“Why?” Scott glared, eyes lacking any heat as they flickered back to the board once more. 

“Because he does a ‘murder most foul’.”

“...I hate you.”

A grin pulled at Stiles’ lips as he opened his mouth to retort, the sound of the bell cutting him off as the classroom erupted into chaos, students chattering and shoving books into backpacks and sleeping students jolting from their naps as the teacher shouted their reading assignment over the noise. 

Rocking back to his desk, metal legs clanking against the laminate floor as Stiles shoved the loose papers and books into his bag, ignoring the crunch of wadded papers and the snapping of what probably was his only pencil, leaving Scott behind with a wave. 

History was a bore. It was the last class of the day, and with the sound from the open windows of laughing students and cars starting to leave to parking lot early, it was hard to sit still. Lydia sat next to him, twirling her pen between her fingers as she sat delicately, dressed in a knee length sundress with her lightly curled hair in a tight ponytail, lips painted perfectly and eyeliner sharp enough to stab a man, as the sun seemed to shine only brighter, a silent taunting of freedom from the colonization and religious beliefs of the 16th century. 

A deep sigh trailed his eyes back to Lydia, her pen no longer spinning as the teacher started going on about the homework, something about trials, as her pen glided reluctantly across the paper. He would grab the assignment from her later. 

Another bell rang, watching as students rushed out, some leaving their books and pencils behind in their haste. Stiles stayed, watching Lydia gather her supplies, another huff escaping her lips. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, a grin pulling at his lips as he grabbed his pack, slinging it over his shoulder as he stood. 

Another huff. 

“Did you not pay attention at all?”

He shrugged, “C’mon Lyds, don’t you see it?” He gestured to the windows, clear blue sky and the sight of the preserve, sunlight streaming through the branches as a light wind blew through the leaves, the _smell_ of summer alone driving him crazy. “It’s practically summer vacation! Hell, I already have a bag packed for the beach trip.”

Rolling her eyes, Lydia stood, shouldering her bag as she stalked out of the room, heels clicking as she made her way through the halls, “First of all, summer vacation is a month away. Secondly, finals are next week, paying attention is crucial.” Stiles scoffed, earning a piercing glare from over her shoulder, “And lastly, you should have heard her! An essay on how religion affected politics in the 16th century? Come on! Everyone’s going to be writing about the salem witch trials - and she dares to ask people to have originality.”

A laugh dies in his throat, Stiles following close behind as they reached the parking lot, her ponytail bouncing in agitation as people parted before her like the red sea. “So, uh, what are you going to write about?”

Lydia suddenly stops, twirling on one pointed heel, blue sundress flaring out like a blooming flower with her head tilted in thought as she stilled. Popping her lips she shrugs, a small glint in her eyes shining back at him, “Not quite sure. I’ll have to do some digging.” 

She leaves him there, next to his powder blue Jeep with his mouth hanging open like an idiot, watching her stride to her respective car, sliding in with ease before starting to fiddle with her phone. Hopping into his own car, he slings his bag into the passenger seat, trying desperately for the engine to start, the car coughing and sputtering until finally giving way.

With a small fist pump, he spins out onto the road, flashing his lights to the small blue prius at the corner and drove past, leaving the returning flash in his rearview mirror as Roscoe rumbled on, her body swaying with the potholes and dips in the pavement on the familiar route home, the preserve flashing by as shadows danced through the trees. 

Beacon Hills had changed a lot since Stiles’ arrival, dirt roads turned to dusty brick and then paved over and over, seiring hot asphalt covering the roads as his home began to be buried. It hadn’t stop anyone from visiting of course, humans too stubborn and clever to accept the improbability of success. It had made his job blurred, more impossibilities and possibilities, a give and take which humans agreed to immediately - a desperate species willing to risk everything when the time would arise. 

The loose CDs in the glovebox clattered as threadbare tires jumped a curb as he skidded a corner, earning a honk from a idling squad car as he waved, a giggling breaking through his lips as he slowed down. He would probably hear about that later if his dad was coming home tonight. 

Extra washers and bolts rolled under his feet as tools and books and a battered baseball bat tumbled and slid around in the stained backseat as he pulled into the barren driveway, door creaking and clicking open as Stiles stepped out, overgrown weeds brushing against worn out sneakers. 

He fusses with his keys minutely, but gets the door open without fuss, climbing the stairs two at a time before throwing his bag to his bed. He absently hears the bag roll and crash to the floor, booting his computer up as he takes a seat. He tugs at his flannel, watching as the dark screen comes to life, shedding the garment as he stands, effectively running to a wall. 

Stiles flails, flannel dropping to the floor as he trips, falling back into his office chair only to slide off and hit the floor with a defeated flop. A small sound comes from the wall and Stiles glares, hating when broad shoulders and beaming hazel offer a hand up. 

Batting it away, Stiles drags himself to his feet, knees shaking as he picks up his flannel, stepping around the infuriating werewolf in favor of the closet, hanging the article before rounding on Derek. 

“You know we have a door, right?” Stiles grumbled, shouldering pass as he enters his password, “Made in the first century, maybe you’ve heard of it? Almost all of everything has one.” 

He turns on his heel, looking up to see Derek closer than he last remembered, lips quirked up in a small smile which made his heart beat boldly under his skin. Deft fingers pulled at his arm, ushering him away from his desk and down the hall. He follows quietly, feet thumping louder than necessary against the stairs as he slides into a stool at the island, watching as Derek enters the kitchen, hunger pulling at his stomach.

Stiles watches patiently as the older man walks about his kitchen, practiced hands finding the knives and plates without hesitation, feet avoiding the lone spot on the floor where it would creak and went about filling two glasses with water. Taking his cup with a smile, Derek left again, searching through the fridge as Stiles sipped, lips lingering on the rim as bright amber eyes watched. 

He watched as Derek continued to move, closing drawers with small movements of his hips, hands never stilling as he worked, shoulders relaxed with his back to him, sometimes not even looking up to reach for another plate or spoon. It was a chore done with familiarity and sureness and it made Stiles wonder how the hell he had managed to fuck up so badly. 

He hadn’t _meant_ for it to get this out of hand. He hadn’t thought that possessing a woman’s soulless child would have spun this far out of control. It had been something to cure his boredom. But he had made friends; got into fights with a stupid human named Jackson and talked to a quiet boy named Isaac and loved the possibility that Lydia was just like him. He had met a Scott McCall, and he became _attached_.

But then Claudia had died, and John was there, clinging to his son and a bottle, otherwise completely alone. Then Scott was pushed down the stairs and had lost his father in a way, and the two had grown even closer. They had gone through the innocence of elementary - thought that he would leave after a particularly bad fall from the top of a tree Melissa had told him not to climb. But he had stayed, had gone through the horrors of middle school and entered high school with ignorance and then Scott had gotten bitten. 

Scott had gotten bit and then everything started getting close, far too close to home that Stiles was even remotely comfortable with. He was forced from his place on the sidelines to center stage and had quickly become a downward spiral. 

The clack of a plate startles him out of his musings, jumping in his seat to see Derek standing on the other side of the island with a small grin on his face, eyes shining as he finished setting down a sandwich. It looked amazing, if not for the very pleased look Derek was sporting. 

“Shuddup.” Stiles mutters, finally setting down his now half empty glass.

The comment seems to only give Derek more satisfaction, the smile growing on his lips as hazel eyes shifted faintly to a soft green, “It’s not my fault you’re so easy to startle.” 

Stiles waves a hand at him, a laugh of his own slipping out before he could stifle it. “Stuff it, big bad.”

Stiles directs his attention to his sandwich, ignoring the pang of embarrassment in his chest, a flush rising to his cheeks as he takes another sip of his water. He was startled too easily - too weak, too soft, too human. He had gone through literal hell, was older than all of his friends combined, and had been around time and time again. Yet…

He looks up, watching Derek happily taking a bite of his sandwich and staring out the window, the sunlight making his hazel eyes glow and hair seem even darker, and Stiles silently wonders how the hell it happened. How the hell a wolf of all things managed to get to him, managed to worm his way to his side. 

As if sensing his gaze, Derek turns, meeting his eyes and Stiles smiles, an involuntary thing which ignites a thousand butterflies in his stomach, makes his heart beat and lungs constrict in a way Stiles somehow loves. He loves the way his boyfriend looks in his kitchen with a crumb in his short beard and with his caterpillar eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He loves that in the morning he will send a picture of a caterpillar with a corny text of how it makes him think of Derek. Loves how Derek will reply with string of letters meant to be a sentence, but too sleep addled to type. Loves the quick kisses they share before the others arrive for pack meetings. 

Stiles knows damn well why he let things get this bad, and he leans over the island, fingers curling into Derek’s soft green shirt, dragging his boyfriend into a kiss made of more smiles than lips.


End file.
